


Death, Bone, and Song

by Laguz



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Esma and Billie will totally own the sea, F/F, F/M, Low Chaos, Multi, The Outsider may be fascinated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laguz/pseuds/Laguz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boyles always get what they want, and what Esma wants is to rip Timothy Brisby open and show him the many errors of his ways. And after that? She'll be damned if she returns to Dunwall with <em>Brisby</em> as the biggest scandal attached to her name. By the time she makes her way home, he'll be nothing but a footnote.</p>
<p>(Alternate Summary: Esma Boyle and Billie Lurk! They <s>fight</s> commit crime!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for a [kinkmeme request](http://dishonored-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/446.html?thread=172478#cmt172478), because I too have a sad and a desire for a swashbuckling Lady Boyle:  
>  __  
>  _I just replayed Lady Boyle's Last Party and I have a sad. :(_
> 
> _So, I would like to request fic where Lady Boyle offs Brisby, either before or after going to his dungeon of creepitude._
> 
> _Then she could go off to join the whalers! (probably make most sense for Lydia to be the one in that case, since she already is buddybuddy with the Outsider?) Or just a pirate queen raider! Or anything that involves her kicking ass and swashbuckling!_  
>  (Sorry it's not Lydia but she eventually gets up to her own (sexy) adventures.)

Patience has never been one of her virtues. _That would require having virtues._ Esma's past the point of instinctively reaching for a glass every time that horrid little voice slithers out from wherever it hides when she's at her strongest.

She's rarely at her strongest, and Brisby, for all he claims she'll want for nothing, denies her requests for wine. _Be honest, Esma, they're pleas._

No, they're not pleas. She may not have the strength to silence that horrid little voice without the aid of wine, but she does have the strength to endure it. She will not _beg_ Brisby for anything.

_As if there's a difference between_ requesting _and begging. Be honest, Esma,_ and of course the voice sounds more and more like Waverly with each word.

"Be honest yourself!" There _is_ a difference. It's a very fine one, but still. If that horrid voice insists on sounding like Waverly, it will have to allow for fine distinctions. Waverly's an artist when it came to crafting the finest of distinctions into a trap, one her prey doesn't notice until long after it's been tripped, and by then it's too late. It's always too late once Waverly set her sights on something.

Just as it's always too late once she set her sights on something. Her desires and methods may be different than Waverly's, but Boyles always get what they want. And what she wants this very moment (even more than a bottle of wine to silence that horrid voice) is to rip Brisby open and show him that no man can ever own--will ever own--her.

_How long will that spirit last? He's already got you mewling in pleasure like one of the whores at the Golden Cat._

Esma chokes on something between a sob and a laugh. Not quite like one of the Cat's whores. She _is_ better kept, and not as practiced at faking pleasure. She's a _Boyle_. Why would she bother with a lover who can't thoroughly undo her?

Brisby can undo her. The bastard's studied her well, and when he forces himself upon her, her mind and body become two separate things, so it's an easy matter for him to pry the responses he wishes from her flesh. She should make it harder for him.

_And deny yourself pleasure?_ Can _you?_ The horrid little voice laughs, high and cutting like Waverly, and then it drops to end with Lydia's low, secretive chuckle. _You'll welcome the attention soon enough. Or your mind will decide to linger in the Void, and then it won't matter what he does with the rest of you._

Esma can't muster a protest. That doesn't mean she agrees. It just means she hasn't thought of a cutting enough response to send that horrid, horrid voice scurrying back to its hiding spot. But she will. Eventually.

_Oh, Esma._ The voice doesn't sound quite so horrid. _You have to escape._

Yes. She's done waiting for her sisters. And Hiram, though since she should _be honest_ , she's never expected him to free her. When she'd imagined her rescue--how many days now since she stopped?--it always came at the hands of her sisters' agents. Of course they're searching for her, and of course, if she waits long enough, they'll find her. But she's tired of waiting. She's tired of Brisby, tired of the silks and the jewels she can't flaunt, and tired of the way her stomach tightens when she hears the slide of the key in the lock. She can't tell if the feeling is dread or anticipation because there's no separating them now.

Waverly and Lydia will just have to forgive her for securing her own escape. As that horrid little voice says, she has to have virtues for patience to be one of them.

* * *

In order to escape, she needs to know where she is so she can start stashing away the appropriate supplies for her journey back to Dunwall. Brisby won't tell her where they are. She's demanded, requested, and finally asked (which still isn't begging, but not by much), and each time, he'd said, "You're with me, Esma my darling. That's all that matters."

So, time to try a different tactic. If he won't tell her, she'll have to trick him into showing her. It's not healthy to be cooped up inside all the time. Perhaps he could take her on a short walk? Just around the estate. She's certain it must be as grand as her room. And (but only if she needs the argument), a stroll through the garden would be romantic, wouldn't it?

There's just one problem with her plan. Brisby's most pliable after what he deems their lovemaking. Immediately after. So she'll have to...she'll have to keep herself together or risk losing her best chance at...

_At implementing the first step of your plan._

Yes. At that.

_Oh, Esma. You can't falter now._

She liked that voice more when it was a horrid little thing. Now it sounds too much like Waverly. And Lydia, but mostly Waverly, because Waverly is who she needs right now. She's scheming, after all, and nobody schemes like Waverly.

Just like nobody fucks like her. Brisby thought he'd seen the full extent of her body's skills? Well, in one sense, he has. Now she'll show him what it can do with something more than instinct guiding it.

"Esma, my darling." Brisby sets a pair of covered plates down on the table and removes the cover over here with a flourish. "I've got a treat for you tonight!"

A plump game hen with golden brown skin paired with a generous helping of cooked carrots and--oh, perhaps she'll allow him one honest smile--a baked apple stuffed with walnuts and a soft cheese. "This is a treat." She reaches for the fork at the side of her plate. A full game hen. "Thank you..." She hates to say it, but best to start mollifying him now. "Timothy."

He smiles, and it's infuriating, but also exactly the smile she wants to see, wide and triumphant, like he believes she's coming around to his way of seeing things. She looks away, focuses instead on her food. He does feed her well, better than she'd been eating in Dunwall, that last party of theirs aside.

Better than she'd been eating in Dunwall. Esma sets her fork down. They have to be past the blockade for this and all the other meals. Hearty stews. Leg of lamb. Jellied ox tongue. They aren't just past the blockade. They're on Morley. The bastard's brought her to Morley. No wonder her sisters haven't found her yet.

"Is something wrong with the hen?"

"No." She spears another bite. "Nothing except it will be gone too soon."

"If you enjoy it that much, we'll have it again."

"Perhaps with some effervescent wine? A Saggunto white would go quite well with this dish."

"Perhaps," Brisby says in that tone that means no, but since she's behaving so well, he won't outright refuse her.

No matter. He believes her reply, so she can keep her new knowledge a secret. They're on Morley. Which part?

Dinner is over much too soon. Brisby rises and crosses the room to feed a card in the audiograph player. The opening notes of a waltz follow him as he comes to her side and offers her his hand. "Perhaps you'll enjoy a dance."

Foreplay. How very like him. "Perhaps."

He pulls her much too close for a proper waltz, but what's the point in propriety when he's holding her captive? "This shade of blue suits you so much more than white," he murmurs in her ear.

"I like white."

"It makes you look so severe."

"That's why I like white." That and she can afford to have it cleaned.

"The blue suits you better."

When she finally escapes, she'll never wear blue again. Well, at least not this shade, the same pale blue of a clear spring sky. She might bring herself to wear one of the darker shades, like the inky blue of the Wrenhaven at twilight. She does look stunning in a nice, deep blue. No need to let Brisby ruin the entire color. Just this shade.

He pulls her closer and dips his head to kiss the side of her neck. The edges of her vision flare white and the strains of music fade away, replaced by a soft, high squeal deep within her ears. And then even that starts to fade as she--

_Esma!_

No. She can't falter now.

But she can't stand the moist heat of Brisby's breath on her neck. She shudders. He obviously mistakes it for pleasure, because he makes a low, satisfied sound and presses an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, his tongue circling her pulse point, and--

No. She can't falter, but she can't stand this, and she knows they're on Morley. Rage lances down her spine. Fuck her fucking plan. Fuck it straight through the Void to whatever's beyond, so the Outsider can't curl his clammy fingers around it and offer it back to her, more twisted and wrong than it already is.

Her pulse floods through her, sounding so much like the relentless pounding of waves against the face of Whitecliff. The skin along her arms and the back of her neck prickles like she's caught in a storm.

No, like she's the storm. "Timothy." Her voice sounds low and distant and _deep_. It's commanding enough that Brisby stops kissing her neck and lifts his head to meet her eyes.

She smiles, wide and wild because yes, she is the storm, and Brisby is alone on the open sea and so, so far from land. She slides her hands along his bony shoulders. "It's my turn to give you a treat."

She leans in. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to say something, but she rises up on her toes and brushes her lips against his. He lets out a breathy sigh, and she opens her mouth, lets him think it's encouragement to press his advance. Her hands creep to his throat, but she doesn't squeeze yet. He's not quite snared. It won't do to spring the trap early.

His tongue slides into her mouth. Almost. He's almost snared. Esma ignores the smell of him, the _taste_. It won't last much longer. He presses in further. Almost snared. Almost.

There! Esma bites. Brisby yelps and tries to push her away, but she's the storm. Her hands close tight around his throat. His tongue gives beneath her teeth, and the taste of his blood bursts coppery sweet on her tongue. 

He screams, or tries to. It's a wet, gurgling sound, a beautiful sound. He claws at her forearms, tries to break her grip, but she is the storm.

She is the storm, and her rage won't be spent until he's dead. So he can scratch at her all he wants, strike her with what's left of his might, can even try to pull back from their glorious, glorious kiss, but none of it will change her course.

Brisby's gurgles trail off. He claws at her arms again, but there's little force behind each swipe. And then his hands fall. His weight drags them to the floor.

Esma doesn't stop until the pounding ocean in her ears recedes. Brisby is still beneath her. His face is twisted and mottled, and the blood at his mouth is so red. So red. She spits out his tongue, wipes her mouth, and rises.

_He deserved a slower death._

Yes, well, it took as long as it needed to. And she still has plenty of strength. She'll need it to make her way back to Dunwall.

* * *

The manor is old, poorly maintained, and even more poorly staffed. Esma doesn't encounter anyone in the hall. A thick layer of dust blankets everything, and the only footprints in the hall are the same set over and over and over. Brisby's.

She stops in the dining room. There's a clear spot on one of the long buffet tables lining the wall. Multiple spots, now that she's looking, like someone had come through and removed a series of trinkets. She runs her finger along the edge of the buffet table. The clear spots don't match the dimensions of any of the trinkets in her room, and they look freshly cleared. The only things Brisby's been bringing to her recently are her meals and the clothes he wishes her to wear the next day.

Has Brisby been plundering the manor's treasures for funds? No. Brisby can't match Waverly when it comes to scheming, but he's still--or had been--a meticulous planner. He'd have squirreled away enough coin to finance them for two lifetimes.

She has a clever, clever intruder. One set of footprints? Try two, the second right on top of Brisby's. Esma brushes her hand clean and smiles. With luck, her clever intruder will still be here, and she can learn exactly where here is.

She finds her intruder on the second floor, in the suite of rooms Brisby had clearly claimed for himself. Her thief is at the safe, methodically trying combinations.

"Try three one nine," Esma says. Her birthday.

Her thief doesn't flinch, doesn't pause, just finishes her current combination. "I did. Didn't work."

"Two eight seven." The night...the night of her party.

"Already tried that, too. Along with seven seven two, five one eight, and six four one."

The unfortunate day she first met Brisby, the first time she very publicly refused him, the last time she very publicly refused him. Her clever intruder is quite well informed.

But not well enough informed. She lets out a shaky breath. "Seven zero five."

Her thief hesitates, then tries the combination. The safe's lock releases, and the door swings open. Of course. Brisby would use her daughter's date of birth. And death. Just one more layer to his cruelty.

_He deserved a much slower death._

Yes, but there's no changing the death he got. It hurt. That will have to be enough for that horrid little voice. And her.

"I'll take half for cracking the combination for you. I don't care about the trinkets you've taken." She doesn't have the faintest clue about how to properly go about selling them, so best to leave them to the professional. But coin, coin she knows.

Her thief turns. She's a young thing, probably not as bulky as her leather coat makes her seem, but certainly not some waif. Esma takes in her dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Probably some Pandyssian in her, though the somberness in her expression, that's pure Gristol.

"You look like you should be interested in the medicinal herbs." Her thief bends down and fishes a small canister from the bag of spoils at her feet. "Here."

She tosses them. Esma catches the canister. The impact, small as it is, strums straight to her scratches on her forearms. They flare to life. Esma holds out her left arm, stares at the deep gouges, surprised, for a moment, that Brisby had managed to hurt her.

The scratches throb in time to her pulse. "I am the storm," she murmurs.

"From the looks of it, the storm's passed." Her thief turns back to the safe.

"Half!" Esma surges forward. "Half of it's mine!"

It should be all of it, but...

But she hates everything about this place, including Brisby's money. So she doesn't want it, but she needs it.

"Not a chance." Her thief hesitates. "A quarter."

There's stacks of ingots. Stacks and stacks of them. "A third."

Her thief's shoulders tighten. "Fine, but I keep everything else."

Esma laughs. "Better in your hands than mine. I don't know the first thing about selling stolen goods."

She snorts and finishes taking her share from the safe. "That's the most sensible thing I've heard an aristocrat say."

"Yes, well, maybe you're mistaking me for someone else."

Her thief gives her a long, considering look. "It is storm season here. A wrong bolt of lightning could burn what's left of this place." She pulls out bottles of processed whale oil from her bag of spoils and sets them on top of the safe. "Might be easier than cleaning up after the last storm."

Esma nods. "Where are we? And don't say Morley. I know that much."

Her thief gives her a ghost of a smile. "North of Fraeport. Village's small enough it's not on most maps." She hefts her bag over her shoulder, and then she just...disappears.

Esma blinks and turns around and around and around, but her clever, and quite well informed, thief is truly gone. Had she truly just seen...? No. Maybe. Who knows how many people bear The Outsider's mark, know his magic? She doesn't, so how can she know what she did or didn't see?

Esma stares at the open safe with her share of Brisby's coin, at the two bottles of whale oil, at the promise of a fire hot enough to burn Brisby clear to ash. 

It's better than he deserves, but it will give her true freedom. So she gathers her coin, two warm changes of clothes, and what food she can fit in her rucksack. The she sets the place ablaze.

She doesn't stay to watch it burn.


	2. Chapter 2

She doesn't owe the Lady Boyle anything. Not a single fucking thing, but she'd given up coin. Good coin. Even those herbs would have netted her at least twenty-five down in Fraeport, surprising considering they're only worth twenty on Dunwall's black market, and Dunwall's the city that needs them more. But Fraeport's the city with more healers. Witches. There's hardly a difference on Morley.

Coming to Morley was a mistake. It's muddling her head again. She doesn't owe the Lady Boyle a single fucking thing, but she's still here, perched high in a tree watching the manor burn. Another sixty coins she'd given up. And for what? Some lady's revenge on a lord?

In the distance, Esma Boyle strides away from the manor. Huh. She figured Esma would watch the place burn, but instead she walks with the measured gait of someone who wants to make it very clear she is _not_ running away and is, in fact, unmoved by the thing she's turned her back on. The brittle set of her shoulders doesn't match what Bille knows about Esma Boyle. The bitch's a shark (all the Boyles are) who only cares about her next drink, her next fuck, and the next bit of sport she'll have tearing some other shark to pieces.

Billie turns her back on the manor, on that bitch, and traverses away. All that coin she could have put towards her own ship, and she just _gave_ it to Esma Boyle to piss away. Maybe she should write another letter to the Daud, give him a good laugh at her expense. Outsider knows she deserves it for all the times she called _him_ weak.

He might have given Esma Boyle the herbs and whale oil. Might have, especially if he'd seen that death dance. Bitch had some steel in her. Enough to be worth eighty-five coins, but he'd have cleared out the safe.

She spots a trio of highwaymen a mile down the road. Their leader has an old spyglass, and he's using it to peer at the manor. Billie stops in a tree across the road from them. A southerly wind covers the creak of branches as she settles into watch.

A slow grin spreads across the man's face. He passes the spyglass to the man on his left. "Looks like we're getting more than coin this time."

The man whistles. "Look at that hair."

The leader snorts. " _That's_ what you notice?"

He lowers the spyglass, passes it to his left. Color rises on his cheeks. "Senga pays good coin for hair like that."

The leader gives a considering hum. "Tam's got a good set of shears. Could take her there. After."

Billie's down behind them before she can _think_. She only carries daggers and throwing knives now (small and easy to hide), but it doesn't take a sword to open a person's throat. The three men are dead before she reminds herself (again) that she _doesn't owe Esma Boyle a single fucking thing._

Especially not her hair. Hair! She just killed three men over (pretty blonde) hair. True, she's killed for sillier reasons (Dunwall's nobility seems to enjoy competing for the pettiest death), but she'd gotten paid for it. And they weren't her silly reasons. This one is. Hair. She'd just killed three men so Esma Boyle could keep her pretty head of hair.

_That_ would give Daud a long, hard laugh. The kind of laugh that would kill an old man, so she'll never mention this to anyone. Ever.

She salvages what she can from the situation. She _will_ need a spyglass when she finally saves enough coin for her own ship. And the men have fifty coins between them.

She raises the spyglass to her eye and focuses on Esma Boyle. Her shoulders are still rigid, and her gait's stiff and mechanical. The spyglass isn't strong enough to make out her expression. Billie lowers it, stares down at the bodies, up at the trees, the empty branches rattling in another gust of southerly wind. She doesn't need a better spyglass to see Esma Boyle's expression. She's seen enough people walking like that, hollow-eyed and haunted and trying to will themselves numb. Some can manage it, but Billie won't waste more coin betting Esma Boyle will be one of them. Bitch has too much fire in her. Numbness requires ice.

"Shit."

The wind gives the branches another rattle, like it's agreeing with her. "Shit," Billie says again. She tucks the spyglass in her coat's deepest pocket and starts down the road to Fraeport. She doesn't owe Esma Boyle a thing, but there's only one place for them to go, one road for them to take. If she clears it of highwaymen for her own benefit, she's not giving Esma Boyle a damn thing. She's just letting the bitch take advantage of the situation.

And really, isn't that how things work for nobles? Esma won't even notice. It will just seem like the natural way of things for her.

* * *

She stops for the night three hours and twelve highwaymen later. It's rather disturbing how thick they are along such an isolated stretch of road. The manor fire must be attracting them.

Or maybe The Outsider's fucking with her. To hear Daud talk about the bastard, he would. He needs something to break the monotony of the Void. 

"Hope you found it interesting," she mutters, and then peels her hand away from the gash on her side. Still bleeding, but not as much now. Billie veers off the road to take shelter in a small copse of trees. Good thing she didn't give Esma Boyle all the medicinal herbs. Another twenty-five coins gone. The Outsider better be having a damn good laugh.

She dresses the wound. It's not the worst she's had, not by a long shot, but it's been awhile since she's had to dress one of her own side wounds. It's more awkward than she remembers.

But the herbs are good. The fiery pain in her side fades to a twinge. Billie watches the sky darken. The clouds are thick enough that sunset is an exercise in gray. Which makes nightfall an exercise in black. She spurs herself to action before true dark sets in, lighting a small fire that shouldn't attract too much attention.

It ruins her night vision, but she's deep enough in the trees that she'll hear anything trying to sneak up on her. (With the exception of Daud and about a quarter of the Whalers. And The Outsider himself. And ghosts. Ghosts can sneak up on her, but they can't kill her before she registers their presence, so they don't count.)

There's the unmistakable sound of someone pushing through the undergrowth. It comes from the direction of the road. Billie draws one of her daggers, looks away from the fire for all the good it will do, listens.

A slim figure steps into the ring of firelight. Esma Boyle. Billie doesn't sheathe the dagger, doesn't even relax, but the coil of tension behind her sternum loosens.

"Well." Esma blinks at her, smiles, and steps closer to the fire. "If it isn't my clever thief."

"I'm not your thief."

"You're certainly not Brisby's." She spits out his name.

Cornered animals sound less savage than Esma. Billie instinctively tightens her grip on her dagger, and she gathers her will for a transversal. Just to be safe.

Esma takes a sharp breath. She relaxes visibly on the exhale and steps closer to the fire. "So. If you don't want me calling you _my_ clever thief, you'll just have to tell me your name." She sinks down to the ground and stares at the fire rather than Billie.

"I didn't say you could join me."

"I didn't say you could rob me."

"Technically, I robbed Brisby."

Esma's lips curl in a wordless snarl. She jerks her chin up and glares at Billie over the fire. " _Technically_ , Brisby was dead by the time you left the manor, and since he considered me his," she shudders, "wife, you did rob me."

Technically, that logic works. Billie shrugs. "Fine. You can sit."

"Why thank you, my clever thief." She pauses, and Billie knows it's an opportunity to tell Esma her name, but she doesn't. Esma shrugs and says, "I'm much obliged. Not quite as obliged as I am for your expert handling of those...gentlemen on the road. Three of them in that last group had pouches."

Only because tending her wound took precedence over looting. That, and she was too tired to backtrack once she'd found this spot. And maybe a little because she hadn't remembered the pouches.

(That would also give Daud a long, hard laugh. The more she thinks about it, writing a second letter is a bad idea. Best to leave things as they are. He'd always said they have to live with their choices, and old men are rumored to be wise.)

Esma rummages through her rucksack and produces them. "It occurs to me that I'm not equipped to make the journey to Fraeport on my own. It also occurs to me you were robbing me for a reason. So, perhaps those skills that enabled you to handle those gentlemen are available to me for the right price."

"Sure. The last third of the safe. Plus another eighty-five coins."

Esma laughs. It's a low, enticing sound. No wonder she has her pick of men. Oh, the money and influence do a lot of the work, but there's a reason men choose her over her sisters. Billie really doesn't need the first-hand lesson. 

"Well, these should cover the eighty-five, but the ingots remain with me." Esma tosses the pouches over the fire. 

Billie lets them land at her feet. She makes no move to pick them up.

"I can pay in food, and I'm certain I have skills you'll need once we get to Fraeport."

Billie snorts.

"Don't scoff. All cities have their hierarchies. There's value in having someone from a different layer in your debt." Esma cocks her head to the side, and her gaze goes distant, like Daud's when he finds a hidden Outsider shrine.

Billie tenses. There's no pressure deep in her bones like at the shrines, no insistent pulsing a half beat off from her heart, no feeling there's something _there_ just beyond the limits of her senses. Still, the expression's just as unsettling on Esma as it is on Daud.

(Wouldn't that just be poetic justice, for The Outsider to find Lady Esma Boyle interesting enough for an audience? While all she's worth is fifteen highwaymen. And however many he puts before her the rest of the way to Fraeport.)

"Yes, I know I sound like Waverly." Esma's voice is soft. "It's not such a bad thing, but I won't be making a habit of it."

Great. Four months with Brisby scrambled her mind.

Esma snaps back to normal. Her expression's a little too knowing, and her smile turns bitter. "Oh, you don't need to worry I'm too addled to be of use." She links her hands together and stretches her arms above her head. "I have to be everything for myself now." She rolls her neck from side to side and gives Billie a coy look. "Except a hired blade."

"I haven't agreed to anything."

"Not true. You did let me sit."

"That's not agreeing to everything."

"But it is agreeing to something."

Shit. She's right.

"Don't look so sour. I could simply trail along behind you instead of offering to pay you for something you'll do for yourself."

"So why don't you?"

Esma shrugs. "Maybe I want the company." She laughs again, low, but bitter instead of enticing this time. "Or maybe I'm afraid I won't be able to keep up."

"That I believe."

"But not that I'd want company?"

"No."

Esma reaches into her rucksack again and pulls out two apples. She tosses one to Billie.

Billie catches it and turns it round and round in her hands, fingers roaming over the smooth skin. She doubts it's poisoned. (But maybe if Esma was some crone. Or if she'd been in Morely more than four months. Or if that distant look of hers had come with the same feeling as watching Daud kneel before an Outsider shrine.) Still, she can't bring herself to eat it. It feels too much like agreeing to Esma's terms.

Esma bites into her apple. The sound is loud, cutting over the crackle of the fire. Bille's stomach clenches in hunger.

Esma swallows, licks a bead of juice from her thumb, and Bille glares down at the apple in her hands. In all the intelligence she'd gathered on the Boyles, there was nothing about Esma taking women for lovers, but she can't shake the feeling Esma's testing her reactions, seeing if she's open to being seduced.

"I do." Esma takes another bite of her apple. "I want company, but you're right to believe I'm afraid I won't be able to keep up."

"People are driven by fear."

Esma hums. It sounds more like acknowledgment than agreement. For the next few minutes, the only sounds are the fire and the crunch of Esma finishing off her apple. She tosses the core into the fire. "I won't ask what you fear. Every woman needs to keep at least one secret."

"You'll ask when you think I'll answer."

"Oh no." Esma's chuckle should make the (short) list of things that frighten her, but she's already given the bitch too much power. "If I truly want to know, I'll never need to ask."

* * *

Even she has blisters by the time they make it to Fraeport. Esma can barely walk. Three and a half days on the road were three days too much for her, one day too much for Billie. It's embarrassing how dependent she's become on traversals to cover long distances. Years ago, she'd have been able to make the walk barefoot.

They find an inn down near the port in an area that caters to visiting merchants, so it's safe enough even if it isn't the sort of place nobles would allow themselves to be seen. But Esma doesn't complain. Billie leaves her groaning on one of the beds and sets off in search of an apothecary. She still doesn't owe the bitch a single thing, but she buys enough ointment for both of their blisters as well as bandages, sutures, and tonics to restock her medical kit.

It's twilight by the time she heads back to the inn. The lamplighters have already been by, and a row of lights dot the road down to the port, the steady blue glow of whale oil cool against the purpling sky.

Billie stops and stares down at the ships. Fraeport's a hilly town, and she won't admit it to Esma (not that she knows to ask), but she chose the Laughing Squid because of its view of the harbor. There are a number of whaling ships dotting the water, but it's the older wooden vessels that hold her attention. Someday. She tightens her grip on the apothecary bag. Someday sooner if she stops acting so stupid.

Esma's asleep when she slips into the room. Billie's quiet out of habit, but from the sound of Esma's breathing, she could invite everyone down in the common room up for a rousing jig, and at most, Esma would roll over to face the wall. She peels off her boots and socks, biting back her own groan.

Some of her blisters have already broke. Billie pulls out the ointment and massages it into her feet, taking slow, measured breaths to help will the muscles to loosen. The healers of Morley may be too close to witches, but they know their medicinal herbs. A cool tingle worms through her feet, and once they stop aching, the rest of her feels better.

Billie tucks one of her daggers underneath her pillow, curls up on her side, and pulls the wool blanket up over her shoulders. She spends entirely too long listening to Esma's steady breathing before she finally falls asleep.

She dreams about Daud and the Boyle party, the one on the night Esma disappeared. A masked ball, and Daud's sent her in as the masked felon that has Burrows in a snit. Only the face on the posters is blank, and none of them have seen the fucker, so she's in a skull mask with wheel cogs set over her eyes and copper wires sewing the mouth shut. And she finds that her mouth is also sewn shut, so she can't warn Daud when--

She jerks awake. Her pulse is frantic, and her lips are so tacky that for a moment, they're stuck together, and Billie has to run her fingers over them to make sure there's no copper wiring binding them together. Something warm presses up against her back. Moist breath fans over the back of her neck, and Billie finally works her lips apart to scream--

And Esma Boyle whimpers and burrows closer. Billie's scream shifts to a very undignified squeak. When the fuck had Esma Boyle crawled into her bed? Why the fuck hadn't she noticed?

Billie elbows her. Hard. It takes two more jabs to rouse Esma.

"Ouch," Esma says sleepily. Then, "Why are you in my bed?"

"You're in mine."

"Oh, don't be silly."

"You took the one by the door."

Esma props herself up on an elbow. "Hmm. So I did."

"So go back to it."

"No." Esma flops back down. "I'm tired, and it's cold." She pulls the blanket back up. "You take it if it bothers you so much."

"I'm not switching beds with you."

"Then stop complaining and go back to sleep." Esma yawns. "I promise not to bite."

"I'm not promising not to kill you."

Esma gives a sleepy hum. "You're not promising to kill me, either. Go back to sleep."

She doesn't. But she doesn't get up. Esma's right. It's too cold. And it's too much trouble to extract herself from the arm Esma has looped over her waist and the leg Esma has hooked over hers.

Esma's breathing deepens into the steady rhythm of sleep. Billie stares at the shuttered window, willing the sun to rise, but it doesn't. Naturally. She sighs. "I hope you're laughing hard enough to fill the Void."

She's not sure if she's talking to Daud or The Outsider. Neither answers because neither's here. She's being foolish, letting Morley, and Esma, make her...something. Not weak, but not strong.

She doesn't owe Esma Boyle a single fucking thing. Billie closes her eye and curls a loose hand over Esma's. But Esma owes her. So she'll stick around until she gets her full payment.


	3. Chapter 3

She'd been to Morley on a handful of occasions over the years. There was the trip to Alba with her sisters three months before Waverly's wedding. It had done nothing to relax Waverly, who was planning the wedding as if it were a military campaign, though Esma can't remember the specific one she'd compared it to at the time. The quashing of the Insurrection, most likely. She'd always enjoyed a good bout of tastelessness.

And then there'd been the business trips to Caulkenny. Well, business for Waverly and her dear, soon to be departed husband. They'd been pure pleasure for Esma, allowed because in those days, she'd liked her wine because it made her _useful_. She laughed and danced and drank, not just the wine, but also all the lovely tidbits normally cautious people let slip in front of drunks who'll hardly remember the party the next day, let alone the conversations.

In those days, she'd always remembered. So Waverly hadn't criticized her fondness for fine Tyvian reds and whatever else caught her fancy. Much.

She'd like the wine well enough, and the parties, the new faces and conquests, but she'd always found Morley a dreary place. Perhaps she'd have found it charming if they'd visited Fraeport, but most likely not. The city's current charm, she suspects (when she forgets she doesn't want to suspect anything), is that it's not Brisby's manor, and that she can come and go from the inn as she pleases. The city itself is not pleasant. It stinks of gutted fish and brine, and the trees dotting the coastline are small and stunted, their branches sweeping inland as if directing the biting wind coming in from the sea straight to the bones of the island's people.

Esma shivers and shoves her hands deeper into her overcoat's pockets, hunching her shoulders against a particularly toothy gust of that biting costal wind. So much for her noble bearing, but then, her proper posture would be out of place in this part of the city. It would be a shame to ruin her disguise because she wore it _too_ well. 

She still hasn't had any wine, but she's done--is doing--plenty of drinking, the kind Waverly thoroughly approves of. The people in this district scurry about all hunched-shouldered against the wind, their wool coats buttoned clear to the top, knit caps pulled low over their ears. Some--those mildly better off--have wool scarves wrapped around their necks, a splash of daffodil yellow or robin red to break up the monotony of the dark blue and blacks.

She's just another one of them, well-off enough to have a scarlet scarf snug and warm around her throat, the wool faintly scratchy. It's Lydia's color, and in Dunwall, that wouldn't do, but in Dunwall, she'd have her sisters, and they'd be what she isn't. She has to be everything here (except a hired blade), so it's fitting she's dressed in a patchwork of all of their colors. 

_A pity too little of each color is rubbing off on you. Honestly, Esma, do you think this jaunt of yours will earn your hired blade's respect?_

Yes, or at least the beginnings of it. As far as she can tell, her clever thief isn't aware there are men from Gristol looking for her. But Esma's drinking every last drop the city will give her, so _she_ knows, and soon enough she'll know how many and why, and if her clever thief will need to make a quick escape.

_Have some pride. Since when do Boyles crave the help's respect?_

Since never, but she's not currently a Boyle, so she can want (not crave) her clever thief's respect. The girl hasn't left yet, but the weight of her assessment is getting heavier and heavier, and Esma knows that feeling well. She's lacking. This little jaunt will ease some of that weight.

She needs the security of her clever thief's blades. So she needs to be worth taking along when the girl leaves.

Which means right now, she has to be nothing more (or less) than one of the countless local women hurrying to work, so that horrid little voice needs to hush. If she's anything more (or less), the pair of men she's following will notice her, and that...won't be a good outcome. So perhaps she's a maid, hurrying to some--

The edges of her vision flare white, and a distant, tinny squeal starts somewhere deep in her ears. Esma squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, takes a sharp breath in through her nose, letting the cold and the smell and the ache of her still-tender feet tether her to her body.

No, not hurrying to some manor. A barmaid, perhaps, hurrying to some warm and popular pub, where old sailors might eye her chest or her hips or the curve of her ass as she serves up their pints, but who know better than to touch.

Yes, that's much better. It's still an unfamiliar role. Before Brisby, she rarely ventured out as anyone but Esma Boyle, and the days when she'd enjoyed trying her hand at playing the serving girl enjoying a day off are well, well in her past. She'd been younger than her clever thief the last time she'd tried.

But she's better at the game now. All her drinking (of everything but wine) is good for something. She knows how to walk, head bowed against the cold but not defeated by it, meeting the eyes of those she passes briefly, occasionally exchanging curt nods, her steps confident and sure but dragged by the faintest hint of fatigue, because she's on her feet day in and day out.

She'd forgotten how...fun it is to notice such things. There had been a time when she'd impressed both of her sisters, Waverly by the sheer amount of detail she noticed, and Lydia by her impersonations. She'd never match Lydia's ear (or skill) for music, but she had been (still is) Lydia's better at replicating a person's bearing and accent.

Her quarry turns at the corner to take one of the narrow, twisting roads to the port. Esma follows, glad that she's thinking of herself as a barmaid. There are a number of pubs to choose from along that road.

By the time she rounds the corner, the men are gone. Esma's step falters. When? How? The nearest alley is too far away for them to have reached it so soon.

Had the crossed the street? Doubtful. She can't see their familiar figures bobbing down the opposite sidewalk. They could have gone into one of the apothecaries lining this stretch of road. It's hard to tell. The windows are beveled glass, so all she can make out in her peripheral vision are vague shapes. There are not enough in the first apothecary she passes. There may be in the second, but then the back of her neck prickles, and she knows, just knows, she's been spotted, and now she's the quarry.

But where are they?

Fear floods into her mouth, metallic and bitter. But it doesn't come with a twist of foreboding in her stomach, or even much of a change to her pulse. It's an odd sensation. She's quite in her body. The shock of each of her footsteps radiate from the balls of her feet, strum up her legs and settle in her hips. Her breath washes over her scarf, warm and moist and too loud in her ears, and she's quite aware of how her arms swing, how her hips sway, as she continues down the street.

But she feels detached from it all, like her body's moving of its own accord, and she's simply cataloging the sensations. There, the pucker of gooseflesh on her arms as that feeling of being _watched_ sweeps over her again. And there, the rub of her left shoe along the heart-shaped blister on the side of her foot. There, finally, the twist of fear in her stomach, sharp and quick and almost breathtaking in its intensity.

They're behind her. They're directly behind her. She doesn't dare turn to look, doesn't dare quicken her stride, doesn't dare let her shoulders tighten or spine stiffen, because the moment she gives any sign that she knows they're there, it won't end well for her.

_It's not going to end well no matter what you do. What were you_ thinking _, Esma?_

No, she can make it end well. A sign for one of the pubs down at the bottom of the hill bobs in the wind. She catches flashes of red, a sinuous curve, and then, after what feels like an eternity, she's finally close enough to make out the name: The Scarlet Serpent.

_Restrict the lying tongue that is like a spark in a woman's mouth. It is such a little thing, yet from one spark an entire city may burn to the ground. Will you burn Fraeport, Esma? Do you that think will let you and your clever thief escape?_

Esma smiles to herself and angles towards the pub. That horrid voice is, occasionally, good for something. Restrict the lying tongue indeed. She knows exactly what truth to tell them. Who knew she'd be one to follow the Strictures? Well, one of them, at least.

* * *

The men don't give her much time. She's just settled in the high-backed booth three in from the door when they enter the pub, spot her, and approach like predators. Wolves, maybe, in the old tales her childhood nurse used to tell her and her sisters.

Esma looks past them, refusing to make eye contact even after they both settled across from her, seemingly loose-limbed and harmless, but some men, she knows, are at their most dangerous then.

One of them is painfully young, lucky if he's shaved twice in his life. He's the one who slides in first, the one who speaks. "My brother wants to know why you've been following us." He looks her over as if sizing her up for the first time. The corners of his mouth curl up in a challenging smirk. "Ma'am."

"Oh." She lets her expression shift to a touch uncertain, and more than a touch wary. The two look nothing alike, even allowing for different fathers. Or mothers. Either way, they're not brothers by blood. And certainly not brothers through the Abbey, so that leaves gang brothers. It's easy to let a note of panic creep into her tone. "You're not who I expected."

"No?"

She shakes her head. The barmaid plunks her pint of ale down, and Esma takes a quick drink, as if it will buy her time. It's tastes like it's been dredged up from some centuries old shipwreck, and she allows herself to grimace before swallowing. There are reasons she much prefers wine.

She sets the mug down, traces idle patterns along the sides with her fingers. The silence stretches between them, brittle on her part, but they'll be the ones who break it.

The young pup leans forward. "Who were you expecting?"

She shakes her head again. "I can't say." She presses her fingers against the mug until the tips of her nail beds turn white.

The pup's attention is still on her face, but his companion's gaze flicks down to her hands and then to her throat, and for a dizzying moment, she's convinced he can see the steady beat of her pulse, can see right through her act that is quickly not becoming an act, but then his eyes drop to her hands again where she's squeezing, squeezing, _squeezing_ the mug, and that, at least, is genuine, because if they don't believe she's afraid, she won't win this.

She is afraid. She is very, very afraid, but once again, she's in her body but not _in_ it, so her mind is unencumbered by her fear. Of course these men are from a gang. Of course they're after her clever thief. What did she think the girl was? Just naturally gifted with a blade?

_You can't win._

She must win, so she will. Esma peels her fingers away from the mug and very deliberately presses her palms flat against the table, shifting her weight as if preparing to bolt. She might even be. Her body seems to be acting on instinct while her mind whirrs away. What next? What should she say next?

She'd had a plan. Restrict the lying tongue.

_They're_ men _. Have you forgotten how to handle men?_

No, of course not. Handling men is as easy as breathing. This pair wants her frightened. She's very good at giving men what they want. And even better at getting what she wants from them.

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Her voice is strained, thin, and unmistakably hers.

The exchange a quick glance. Yes, they've noticed her accent, and from the way the young pup frowns, it's unexpected. As if she needs further proof they're not her sisters' agents.

She starts to rise.

"Sit down," the older man says. His voice is even and low. Not threatening, but there's no arguing with it.

His face is smooth except for faint, very faint, lines at the corners of his eyes. He's certainly older than the pup, but she can't tell by how much. Five years, maybe as much as ten if it's experience that gives his voice its commanding weight.

She sinks back down. "You're not who I expected at all."

"Who are you expecting?"

_Restrict the lying tongue..._

It's not her plan to lie, but her selected truth sits ashen in her mouth. "It's not safe to say."

He smiles. It's not kind. 

Esma's distantly aware of her pulse quickening. Her throat is dry, and that metallic taste is back and almost electric on her tongue. She hears herself saying, "And it's not safe not to say. I know."

His smile widens, and it's utterly, utterly terrifying and utterly, utterly thrilling. "No."

Esma reaches up and removes her knit cap. Her hair tumbles loose around her shoulders, wild and tangled from being unceremoniously twisted up under the wool. She runs her fingers through it to work loose the knots as best as she can and then twists it behind her with one hand, lifts her chin, and fixes both of them with her most regal stare. "This will have to be answer enough, gentlemen."

Her accent is _hers_. Dunwall noble countless generations back.

"Outsider's balls!" The young pup jerks back like she's one of Sokolov's delightful arc pylons. It's flattering, really, considering how unkempt she is. "You're--"

"It's not safe to say," she says, and now her tone's the one that allows for no argument.

"Considering the treason charge waiting for you at home, no," the older man says.

"Treason?" She lets her hair fall and searches his expression for...well, for any shred of emotion beyond that terrifying, thrilling smile.

"You were, if you'll forgive my crudeness, fucking Hiram Burrows. Guilt by association."

"Is every woman who graced his bed in Coldridge?"

"None of the others funded him."

"My sisters." She reaches across the table and grabs his wrist. She's shocked by the strength of her grip.

So is he by the way his smile vanishes. He blinks down at her hand, and she has the distinct impression he's contemplating if he should extract his hand by breaking her fingers one by one.

She doesn't let go. "Are my sisters alive? Free?"

His smile returns. "I'm sure you understand the value of information. You're not who we were expecting, either."

She releases him. "I understand this is the part where you tell me what you want."

"A woman." He slides a hand inside his coat, withdraws a folded slip of paper, and slides it across the table to her.

It's a wanted poster. Of course it's a wanted poster. And of course it's her clever thief's somber face staring up at her. Billie Lurk. Wanted for murder, arson, and extortion.

"Well." There are so many things she could say. _I saw her on the road. I know where she's staying. I can take you to her. I can send her to you. I can give her to you. Just tell me about my sisters!_ They're truth and lie rolled into one, and each possibility dies on her tongue. "Well."

"You've seen her."

Billie Lurk. The name suits her better than the fake one she'd given. Annabelle. As if someone that fierce can have a soft, melodious name.

There's only one truth she can give them. "There's a manor north of here. A three and a half day walk. Maybe shorter for you."

"That's where she is?"

"That's where she was." Esma rubs at the scratches on her left arm through the sleeve of her coat. "She robbed it. I burned it."

"And then you parted ways?" He shook his head. "I don't think so."

Esma laughs. "Well, yes and no. She was so gracious about clearing the road. I followed as best I could, and now I'm here."

"While she is...?"

Ah, she can give them another truth, a perfect, misleading truth. "The last time I saw her, she was at the port eyeing the fishing trawlers."

"When?"

She gives them her most stunning smile. "Midday."

It's almost comical how quickly they scramble to their feet and bolt for the door.

* * *

She wastes no time running back to the Laughing Squid. "Please be there," she mutters over and over, clutching the wanted poster tighter and tighter in her fist.

Billie is there. She's claimed one end of what's become her common table in the back corner. Except for Esma, nobody joins her when she's staked out out, and it's only now that Esma realizes Billie's chosen that spot because it's the only place where she can see all the comings and goings in the room.

She presses her lips together in a thin line as Esma approaches, but aside from that, there's no change to her expression, not even when Esma smooths out the wanted poster on the table and says, "I think it's time we move on, _Annabelle_."

Billie glances down. "When?"

"Now."

"No, I mean when did you get this?"

"Just now from two men who are currently searching for you at the port. I don't think either of us are lucky enough that they'll believe you've hopped a ship to Tyvia."

"No." Billie's lips quirk up in the faintest hint of a smile. "Too fucking cold for my blood."

"I, for one, am quite invested in keeping your blood warm and in your veins, so we're leaving now."

"Invested, huh?" Billie rises, tosses a five coin on the table.

"You are quite skilled with a blade."

"Keep talking nice like that, and I might let you tag along."

"Keep dragging your feet like that, and I'll leave you behind."

"There's no real point in hurrying." Billie's voice is low and weary. "There's probably more than two, and you've probably led the rest back here."

Esma grabs her arm. Billie's bicep is solid, thicker than it seems from the way her sleeve hangs, and under different circumstances, Esma would like the way it flexes when Billie tenses very, very much. As it is, she likes it very much, but it's something to explore later. "Probably is not the same as definitely, so there is a point in hurrying."

"You know, sometimes, you're a really pushy bitch."

"Yes." Esma tugs and is relieved when Billie lets her pull her towards the stairs. "I've bought us time. _Use_ it."

"Did they tell you who they were?"

"No." 

"Aren't you going to ask?"

"Eventually." When they're out of the city. When they're safe. When she's certain she'll get an honest enough answer. Esma reaches in her pocket for the room key. It's not there. She stops, and it's sudden enough that Billie stumbles into her.

"What?"

"A pickpocket." Esma gives a weak laugh. She hadn't even felt it. And she knows her luck. It had to have been one of them. "A pickpocket took my key."

Billie lets out a long breath. She steps around Esma, the sound of her footsteps feather light. She's pulled a dagger from wherever she hides them and gently nudges Esma back with her hip.

"You remember where we got off that wagon outside the city?" Billie asks, her voice low.

"Yes."

"Run. I'll meet you there with whatever I can salvage."

"No."

"You're a liability here."

"You'll..."

Billie glances back and tosses her a wolfish smile. "Take it all and run? It is tempting, but you still owe me a favor. I'll collect."

Esma squares her shoulders and draws her back up straight, every inch the elegant and composed Lady Boyle. "No doubt you'll only be able to salvage your belongings." Her legs were oddly watery, but they took her forward a step just fine. "I'll run when it's time to, not a second before."

_Don't be foolish._

She's not being foolish. Billie Lurk is all she has now, and she can't be alone. She doesn't want to be alone. And if...if Waverly and Lydia are in Coldridge (or worse), she needs Billie, because her sisters need her.

So no, she's not being foolish. She's being practical.

"These aren't highwaymen. I won't be able to protect you."

Practical. She's being practical. Not foolish. Not brave. Just practical. "Then I forgive your failure in advance."


	4. Chapter 4

There are four of them. Three in the room, one on the roof of the building across the narrow alley. She can't tell who the lookout is, but she knows the three in the room by their posture. They'll be a problem. Bille wills her vision back to normal. Rinaldo. Avery. Eddols.

They'll be a big problem.

She can't say she hasn't been expecting this. Daud's forgiveness isn't collective forgiveness. She hadn't been close to any of the others, but she'd still been one of them, had known them well enough to know most of them will never forgive her. The only surprising thing about this is that there's only four.

(Would have been nice to get some time in on her own ship. Would have been nice to make a better choice, but there's no changing the past. And there's no point in delaying the future.) 

Billie kicks in the door.

They're on her at once. Rinaldo charges her head-on, traversing the distance, but she's expecting it and blocks his blade. Avery and Eddols flank her, and she can't block the three of them at once, so she traverses backwards into the hall. Avery's anticipated the move, fired a bolt in the middle of her traversal, and Billie's sure the only reason the bolt slices through her jacket's left sleeve and skims the side of her arm instead of striking true is because of the bone charm she keeps tucked in her breast binding for protection against ranged weapons. Avery's aim is as creepily true as her perception.

(If Avery had joined the crew before her, maybe she'd have been Daud's favorite, been the one he promoted to Second, been the one to betray him. And maybe Billie would still be in this hallway growling in frustration like Avery is now, pressing her own attack like Avery is now. But Avery hadn't joined first. There's no changing the past. Or the present. And if she doesn't _focus_ , she won't have a future.)

Eddols advances. Billie twists away. He stabs the wall instead of her, and the precious second it takes him to yank his blade free gives her a chance to back down the hall, away from the stairs down to the common room. It will trap her, or seem to, but the last room on the left is unoccupied, and the doors here aren't that sturdy. She has an exit.

Avery fires another bolt. It grazes Billie's temple, probably takes a nice chunk of skin, but it doesn't do any real damage. Avery curses, lowers her wristbow, reaches for her blade.

Billie traverses back. And back. And back until she's stuttered her way to the end of the hall. It's a waste, though, because there isn't enough room to _move_ , and Avery and Eddols are fighting smart, pressing their attacks on foot to conserve their power, and fuck. Where's Rinaldo?

A man cracks open his door. "Stay inside," she and Eddols snap at the same time. Eddols glares at her like she doesn't have the right to warn off civilians, not after all that talk of _Daud_ going soft, being weak.

(Maybe she doesn't.)

Still no Rinaldo. It's not like the fucker to hang back once he's committed to a fight. Has he taken to the roof to cut off her escape? She doesn't dare _look_. That vision's tricky, leaves her with a pounding headache the longer she uses it, makes hard to notice the little tells that telegraph attacks. It won't do her any good to _see_ if Rinaldo is moving to cut her off if it opens her up to Eddols and Avery.

She blocks Eddols. The impact strums up her arm. He's got a good three inches on her and at least twenty pounds, all of it muscle, and he uses his bulk to force her back.

Avery sweeps in. Billie can't block her. It's taking everything she's got to hold off Eddols, so her only escape is another traversal, back down the hall towards Esma, and damn it, why hasn't she run yet? How long has it been? Five second, ten? Fights always take longer and shorter than they seem, but there's been more than enough time for Esma to tuck tail.

Avery's already turning. Billie flicks her wrist, fires a bolt without really aiming. It hits Avery square in the shoulder. Damn. She'd expected it to go wide.

Then Rinaldo steps into the hall, so she's pinned on between him and Eddols and a snarling Avery, and she's fucked. She's well and truly fucked.

And Esma Boyle still hasn't run. "Go," Bille yells at her. Then she charges Rinaldo.

It's a sloppy attack. He counters easily, but he has to focus on her, so he can't stop Esma from running. But Esma's _still_ not running. "Don't just stand there!" Billie drops her shoulder, sways a bit like she's off-balance. Rinaldo knows that trick and doesn't try to take advantage of the opening. She still follows up with a low, sweeping kick. He dodges it.

She spins, hip-checks him. That, at least, catches him by surprise, and he staggers back. It puts enough distance between them that she can focus on Eddols again. He manages a running leap, and it isn't quite like a drop assassination, but it's got enough weight behind to force Billie to her knees. He bears down on her. She can't shake him off, and she's keenly aware of how exposed her back is to Rinaldo.

She is beyond well and truly fucked. She still tries to get the right leverage to force Eddols off her. No way she'll make it an easy kill. 

Rinaldo's shadow washes over her. This is it, and...

And she's oddly fine with it. She's fighting. How else can she die?

(Not always fighting. In some pasts, it's the plague. In some other futures, it's drowning, or a wound gone bad, or poison. But most often, yes, it's fighting.)

The knowledge blooms in her mind, like it's somehow recoded on an audiograph tape, and something inside her can play it and absorb the information, even if she can't hear it. It's fucking creepy.

But not as fucking creepy as the cold pinprick feeling creeping up _inside_ her. Time seems to freeze, and another audiograph tape slides into place, and Billie can somehow see the tableau they all make in the hall, Eddols pinning her in place, Rinaldo preparing to strike, Avery yanking the bolt out of her shoulder, and Esma...

Esma runs. Billie dies. Esma runs. Billie dies. Emsa runs. Billie dies. Scene after scene washes over Billie. (Possible futures, and in all of them, Esma runs. Except in one. One improbable future, barely worth noting, except for the small, interesting fact that it's the only future where Billie lives.)

Time starts again. And Esma...

Billie tenses. Esma screams. Instead of Rinaldo's blade sliding into her back, Billie's treated to Rinaldo's startled yelp, the stinging sound of a slap, and Esma letting lose a string of gutter curses Billie's surprised she knows. 

The one improbable future barely worth noting, except that it's the only one where she lives. Billie laughs.

* * *

"Lady Boyle stabbed me in the neck with a _bolt_." Rinaldo pulls the cloth away from the wound and glares at Avery. "Your fucking bolt."

"Excuse me for not salvaging my bolt while the target was still alive." Avery drops her hand to her sword. " _Why_ haven't we killed her?"

Rinaldo shrugs, winces, and says, "Because Lady Boyle _stabbed me in the neck with a fucking bolt._ " He cuts them a quick glance, and Billie shifts to position herself in front of Esma. Rinaldo grins. "Shit training, Billie. Nowhere near the carotid."

"Would you like me to try again?" Esma asks in a honeyed tone, all cloying and sweet. Probably her version of dangerous, but since she's not trained to go up against someone like Rinaldo (or even their young lookout), there's no real threat in it, only bravado.

Rinaldo's grin widens. "You wouldn't connect." He presses the cloth to his neck again. "And Avery here would drop your girlfriend."

"Avery here may still drop the bitch."

"The bitch may traverse away and leave you to deal with the innkeeper."

Rinaldo arches an eyebrow. "Without _your_ girlfriend?"

Bille reaches behind her and grabs Esma's arm. It's going to be a sloppy transversal. She's not good at taking others, but she can get the two of them outside. They can run.

"Relax, Lurk. You could have killed us. We could have killed you. But you didn't, and we didn't."

Avery takes a sharp breath. Rinaldo shoots her a warning glare. She holds his gaze for a moment, but then backs down and lets her hand fall away from her sword. "I hate this place. I really, really hate this place."

Eddols snorts. "Want to try Tyvia?"

"No."

The lookout's suddenly balanced on the windowsill. Billie only vaguely remembers him. He'd been new, one of Rinaldo's finds, shaky on his transversals but decent with a blade, quick to pick up on poisons, and not half bad at patching people up, so with enough training, he'd earn his keep.

"The Watch is coming." His expression is pinched, and he stares straight ahead at a point beyond Rinaldo.

Rinaldo straightens up. "Well, then, that's our cue to leave." He flashes her a cutting grin. "You and Lady Boyle coming?"

Avery makes a strangled sound. "No they're not coming! What are you _thinking_?"

Rinaldo shrugs again. "I'm _thinking_ we don't want to fight our way through the Watch."

"That doesn't mean you have to invite them." Avery pushes past him, heads towards the window, gives the lookout a withering glare. "Don't just crouch there gaping. _Move_ , back to the roof."

The lookout teeters back, manages a traversal before falling out of the window. Avery shakes her head. "Honestly," she mutters, and then makes her own traversal.

Eddols keeps his gaze firmly fixed on Rinaldo. "Sure it's wise?" He angles his head towards her and Esma.

"She could have killed you and Avery out in the hall." His gaze darts briefly to her, then to Esma. "Also could have left without coming up here."

True. Billie sighs. Rinaldo likes to ask questions without actually _asking_. Considering he hasn't killed her and has, in fact, kept the others from killing her, she figures she owes him an answer. "Would have meant leaving too much coin behind."

"Had to at least try for it?"

Yes. And no. It's a lot of coin, but there's always more, and she's used to having nothing. It wouldn't have been too hard to start over. "Figured I owed you the fight."

Rinaldo nods. "Yeah, you did."

* * *

She traverses with Esma over to the roof, and then down to the next cross street. Esma bobbles and braces herself against the rough stone of the Cartographers Guild building. "That was...unpleasant." She straightens up. "But preferable to dealing with the Watch."

Rinaldo appears next to them. "Especially since you don't have a bolt to stab any of them?"

"And no influence to talk my way past them." Esma shoulders her bag and starts down the street, her back straight and proud and steps measured.

Rinaldo watches her, head cocked to the side the way it goes when he's admiring something. "I think you'd have managed it."

Billie tamps down on her flare of annoyance. "Don't encourage her. She'll get ideas."

"She already has ideas." Rinaldo falls into step beside her. "If she's going to go around stabbing people, someone should teach her how to do it right."

"Now it sounds like you're getting ideas."

"I am the better instructor."

True. Billie frowns. Esma owes her. Her, not Rinaldo. She doesn't like the idea of Esma owing him anything.

But they could use someone with Rinaldo's skills. And Eddols's. Avery's. That novice's. They'd be a good crew.

A crew. The idea sits warm and heavy in her chest. Is she honestly considering a crew? She'd always held herself apart. In the end, she can only depend on herself. People turn on each other, cast out liabilities. She's proof enough of that. "You've got your own flock."

"And you've got a noble lady with a price on her head."

Esma pauses and glances back at them. "You and your little flock wouldn't be thinking of collecting?"

Rinaldo snorts. "The new Lord Regent would kill me and my little flock on sight." He grins in the low light. "Or right after he kills you if you insist on going for his neck with a bolt."

"I would hope my instructor would train me on a more suitable stabbing weapon."

"He's not training you on anything."

"Good. I'd prefer to learn from you." Esma turns and heads towards the port. "Though the lessons can start after we secure transport."

"I'm not training you."

"Of course you are. The woman on the roofs will refuse. The man, too. And I refuse to let that pup train me."

"Orlov will be crushed, I'm sure."

"He's young and will recover."

"And somehow I'll recover from your rejection." Rinaldo saunters ahead. "We should pick up the pace. The Watch will figure out we're heading to the port soon enough."

He's right. Billie sighs and picks up the pace.

"Well." Esma falls into step beside her. "You have some interesting friends. Shall I count us lucky that they're the ones who came after you?"

"I'm going to regret confessing this, but it wouldn't have gone well for me if you hadn't stepped in."

"You realize you've just obligated yourself to training her, Lurk," Rinaldo says without looking back.

She'd obligated herself to much more days ago. She'd just refused to admit it.


	5. Chapter 5

Three days of being cooped up in too close quarters with her Billie's friends, and Esma still isn't sure what to make of them. For the most part, they speak with the eloquence of educated men and women, but not aristocratic men and women. They don't have the right accent, for one, and they use the wrong turns of phrase. The Outsider knows there's enough wealthy merchants and businessmen in Gristol who can afford the best tutors end even buy a title, but they're not the sort of people to fall into gangs when hard times hit. So, where did Billie's friends come from? Esma can't figure it out.

And she can't understand, no matter how many roles she assumes to examine it, why they've accepted Billie Lurk back into the fold after traveling so far to kill her. Or why Billie's gone along with it. Esma doesn't like it (except when she does; there's safety in numbers) and doesn't like how vulnerable it makes her feel. So she'd proven good in one pinch for Billie. She hasn't proven she'd be good in a general pinch, and now Billie has comrades she knows and can apparently depend on now that they've settled whatever it is that caused Billie to leave.

Will Billie cut her loose when their ship docks in Yaro? They've done some training. Not much, but at least Esma knows how to hold a knife properly now. They don't have enough room to practice, but Billie has her working on watching the crew, how the people move, the patterns that emerge. It's fascinating, and also intoxicating, to link everything together. She hopes it's not the extent of her training, but if Billie decides they're even, she _could_ manage on her own. She'd fare better in Dabokva. The Boyles have friends there. Still, she could make Yaro work. All she needs is to charm her way to passage to Dabokva.

_The Boyles_ had _friends there. Given the current situation, they might decide it's best to hand you over to the new Lord Regent._

She hates that the horrid voice is right. She hates that she doesn't know what to do. And she hates that she's cooped up on some disreputable merchant's ship. Smuggler's more like it, but the captain has valid papers and a legitimate guild flag, so she'll follow Billie's lead and pretend he's a normal trader looking to earn a little extra coin by taking on passengers.

Then she finds the children in a hidden compartment, and there's no pretending. For all the talk that Serkonos is home to nothing but merchants and whores, Tyvia is the pleasure capital of the Isles. At least among the rich. And Yaro is the city of choice for those who take unacceptable pleasures.

Children. _Children._ She's no champion for the less fortunate. She's no champion for anything beyond her own comfort. She knows her faults quite well, and even now, when she can wish for whatever she pleases without any regard to her station, she has no wish beyond remaining within the protective radius of Billie Lurk's blades.

_Self-deception is so boring, Esma._

Yes, well, she's always focused on one thing at a time. But she's not deceiving herself. She is just as horrid as that little voice. Still, no child deserves whatever the brothels and fighting rings in Yaro intends for them.

She finds Billie up on deck, head lifted into the biting wind as if accepting some sort of blessing from it. Esma clears her throat, finds she doesn't have the patience to wait for acknowledgment. "The captain is smuggling children."

Billie flinches but doesn't turn.

"I realize I'm the last to discover it--"

"You're the first." Billie finally turns to face her. Her face is chapped from sea spray and wind, but it doesn't seem to bother her. There's been a lightness to her since the ship left port, though at the moment, her expression is grave. "At least the first who's mentioned it to me. Given that the captain is still alive, Avery and Eddols don't know."

"So they'd kill the man."

"Horribly." Billie turns to look back out at the sea again.

"Then perhaps I should tell one of them."

"Don't trust me to handle it?"

"You seem to be busy." She sounds waspish, too much like Waverly in one of her moods, but she'd expected...well, she'd expected a different reaction than this.

"Do I?" Bille curls her hands over the railing and leans out into the wind. "You know, before I joined up with the old man's crew, I wanted to captain my own ship. Once I left, once my head cleared, I started saving coin for it. My own ship."

"Is this where I'm supposed to say you now have one for the taking?"

Billie laughs and pushes away from the railing. "No. I've been telling myself that since Avery got us on. But I can't figure the crew. If I kill the captain, how many of the others will I have to kill to keep order?"

"I don't know."

"You're better at figuring people. We're a week out from Yaro. Take three days. Get me faces, preferably with names and positions. If more than half the crew is going to fight, we're better off letting the ship dock and tracking them to where they stash the kids until the money's changed hands."

It's logical. Even if Billie and her friends have the skills to man a ship, they can't manage one this size alone. They need the crew. Still. _Children._ Fifteen of them crammed into a space half the size of the cabin she and Billie share with the others. They're cramped at six people, and at least they all have the option to leave and walk around the deck.

Billie presses her lips into a thin, hard line. She lifts her chin and focuses on something behind Esma. Esma turns. The captain is on deck and approaching them with a wide smile she and Billie are supposed to find charming, but even before Esma found the children, she'd recoiled from the captain on instinct. He reminds her too much of Custis Pendleton, clever and cruel in equal measure.

_Cruelty's not as thrilling without the protection of the Boyle name, is it?_

No, but even Lady Boyle has limits. Had limits. May have limits in the future, if it's ever safe to be a Lady Boyle again. Assuming she wants to reclaim her name.

_Assuming? You say you know your faults quite well. There's no assuming. You'll wish to reclaim your old life soon enough._

Most likely. The Boyle name and money allowed her to do as she pleased. Oh, she'd had to endure her sisters' disappointment whenever she went a little _too_ far, but they all went a little _too_ far in their own ways, and they all looked after each other. No matter their disagreements, Boyle women stand together in their times of need.

_Except now._

No, not except now. If her sisters are free, they have agents looking for her. And if they're in Coldridge, she'll learn their status soon enough and plan their rescue.

So that horrid little voice can hush and let her deal with the odious captain.

"My two _favorite_ passengers. I was hoping to catch both of you together."

"And now you have," Esma says, her tone flat. "Fortune most certainly smiles on you."

"Yes." His smile falters for an instant before snapping back in place. "So it does. And how does it smile on you?"

"We've no complaints."

"Neither of you?" His gaze flickers to Billie.

"None," Billie says, and judging by the way the captain's expression tightens, she's answered with one of her terrifying smiles, one she's no doubt stolen from Rinaldo.

"Good. Good. I'm glad my humble ship suits your needs."

Esma resists the temptation to step back. The way he's looking at her is too knowing. She does not look much like her old self, not with windswept hair and weather-chapped skin. But she doesn't look like a common woman, either, and the captain is a shrewd man. He must know they had few choices when leaving Fraeport, and must be thinking of ways he can earn more coin from them.

_The children may not be the only people he plans on selling._

That horrid voice is right. Esma takes a step back on instinct.

Billie presses a hand to the small of her back. It's a small gesture, most likely meant to steady her, but it also gives Esma courage. The captain will not sell her, will not sell any of Billie's friends, and will not sell the children. She'll see to that with Billie's help.

"The two of you will dine with me tonight, won't you?"

"Just the two of us, or do you plan to ask your third favorite passenger as well?" Esma offers him a coy smile. Billie's fingers dig into her back. In warning? Support? It doesn't matter. She can handle this encounter with the captain. He is, after all, just a man, and she knows how to handle men. "We'd be happy to extend the invitation to her on your behalf."

He chuckles. "So you accept?"

"We'd be fools not to."

"Well, then, come at the evening shift change."

She nods.

"And also tell my third through sixth favorite passengers that the hold is off limits. Cargo shifts, especially in these waters. We can't have a crate falling on any of you."

"We'll pass along your concern," Billie says.

"Good. Good. Until this evening, ladies." He gives them a brief bow and saunters away.

Billie waits until he's out of earshot. "Better make it one day."

"And you say you're bad at figuring people."

"I said you're better at figuring people." Billie snorts. "But you don't need to be good at it to figure the captain plans to drug our wine for his pleasure and profit. Find Rinaldo. Don't let anyone in the crew catch you alone."

"And who will serve as your brave protector?"

"Orlov. I'll put Avery with Eddols, and if things start to deteriorate, task them with discovering our dear captain's secret cargo. It'll be messy, but it'll keep us alive."

Esma nods. "I'll get you faces and names and ranks. And yes," she says before Billie can remind her, "I'll do it all under Rinaldo's protective watch."

* * *

By late afternoon, she knows a quarter of the crew is fanatically loyal to the captain, another quarter hate the bastard but like his coin, and the remaining half are savvy enough act as if they fall into the first group even though they might fall into the second. So a quarter to half of the crew might be loyal enough to the captain to be a problem, and she doesn't have the time to get a more accurate number.

"You and Lurk planning mutiny?" Rinaldo asks, his voice low so it doesn't carry to the deck hand who's been following them for the past half hour.

"We're considering our options should the captain prove...ungentlemanly at dinner tonight."

"A wise move since you're dragging Avery along. Not that Lurk's restrained, but she's better at considering the angles." He stops and leans against the railing. "Seems a little sudden, though."

She turns to look out at the sea with him. The water's choppy, but the wind's not so brutal now, and the clouds have thinned enough for the occasional sun break. There's a whaling ship in the distance. Esma squints and can barely make out details, but she does manage enough to finally realize the deck is empty. So, it hasn't caught a whale yet. Something inexplicably loosens in her chest, and she breathes a little easier. "Yes, well, the invitation to dinner was sudden."

"And has nothing whatsoever to do with the first mate spotting you coming out of the cargo hold? He wasn't happy about that."

So much for breathing easier. She stiffens but doesn't pull away when Rinaldo slides closer and says, "Makes a man curious about what you may have seen down there."

She laughs loud enough for it to carry to the deckhand. She turns to face Rinaldo, returns his sharp smile with one of her own. "You strike me as the type of man who doesn't need help satisfying his curiosity."

His smile widens. "Careful." He steps closer, and just as in that pub in Fraeport, he's utterly terrifying and utterly thrilling. "I'm not as tame as your normal conquests."

No, and there's no guarantee she'd walk away from this encounter as the conqueror. Still, she knows _this_ game, and she's never truly lost it. Even her early defeats ended as victories in the long play.

She braces her hands against his chest and rises up on tiptoe, ostensively for a kiss, since the deckhand isn't even trying to hide the fact he's spying on them anymore. "But I'm right."

He cups her chin, not roughly, but not gently, either, and his grip forces her to remain on her toes and off-balance, depending on him for support. It's a delicious feeling, and it's _nice_ to feel it again. After...

After Brisby.

The feeling fades. Esma swallows, finds she's digging her fingers into his jacket. His chest is solid, just as unyielding as his grip on her chin, but he's not hurting her, and he's _not_ Brisby and not that awful captain. She doesn't need to play this game with him.

_But it's such a fun game, Esma._

Yes, but she doesn't need to play it with him. She laughs, and it's not low or coy or calculated. It's high and honest, and how long has it been since she's laughed like that? Years and years. Not since she was a girl.

She doesn't need to play this game with him. She's always played it. Always, because it's been her only access to power. But she has different power now.

She relaxes her grip on his jacket. "You're quite possibly the first man I don't have to seduce."

"Then why are you trying?" He pulls her closer. The rough hitch in his voice rekindles that delicious shivery feeling. "Don't you dare say habit."

Habit. Yes, that's exactly what this game is. "Then shall I say honest desire?"

He narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on her chin. "Is it?"

"I wouldn't know." She laughs again.

He lowers his arm, lets her get her feet firmly under her so she doesn't need to rely on him for support, but he doesn't release her. He bends down, and for a moment, she's sure he's going to kiss her, but he stops just short of it and asks, "What do you know?"

"Not nearly enough."

He huffs out soft laugh. His breath smells of mint, of all things. "Not about this." His lips brush over hers. 

It's not a kiss. It's more like a promise of one, and she's taken aback by how badly she wants him to make good on it. Later, when they have time, room, and privacy.

"What do you know about the captain? The crew? The cargo?"

"You're bold to ask that in front of our audience."

"He can't hear us. Wind's blowing the wrong way." Rinaldo tangles his free hand in her hair and tilts her head back. "And we don't look like we're talking. So tell me."

"The captain wants more coin from us, and he'll sell us to get it. Enough of the crew is loyal enough to his coin to be a problem. And the most precious cargo is in a hidden compartment. But you know all that."

He smiles. "I do satisfy my own curiosities, yes."

"There will be trouble tonight."

"I'll be disappointed if there isn't." He releases her and straightens up. "And now it's time to deliver you back to Lurk." He offers her his arm, gives the deck hand a sly wink when she accepts it. "Wouldn't want to keep the captain waiting."

* * *

She has to give the captain credit for serving a good dinner. Oh, the whale meat is tinned, but the cook's fried it up in a very nice olive oil and served it over wilted greens. There are also stewed apples and salted nuts, and dessert is a ripe Tyvian pear paired with a slice of sharp cheese.

And, of course, there's wine. Wine she, Billie, and Avery barely touch, which is a shame, because it's a dry Tyvian red, and it is indeed an exquisite pairing with the dessert.

But there's no trusting it, so Esma sets her glass aside after a small sip. Something flares in the captain's eyes. Annoyance? Disappointment? No matter. They're all armed with hidden knives, though if it comes to fighting, Esma will stay out of Bille and Avery's way. Her small knife is more for her sense of security.

"Are you sure I can't tempt you?" The captain refills his glass. "My cousin's the winemaker. I never pass up an opportunity to show off his skill."

"It's a fine vintage, but my friends and I aren't used to sea travel." Esma presses a hand to her stomach. "I'm afraid it would end up on your deck."

The captain sets the bottle down. "A pity." He considers each of them in turn as he sips his wine. "I'd hoped for a cordial evening."

"We are being cordial," Avery says.

"You've come armed. I don't find that cordial."

Avery makes a scoffing sound. "You've got your pistol."

"So I shoot you. In the time it takes me to reload, your scowling friend," he jerks his chin at Billie, "slits my throat."

"That's about right," Billie says. "Assuming you're fast enough to get off a shot."

"Trying to goad me?"

"Stating facts. We're fast." Billie considers the last of her dessert. "You didn't have to wait until after dinner to impress us with your keen eye for hidden weaponry."

"I doubt you're impressed."

"I took care to hide my knife."

"Don't insult me. Knives, plural. You're each sporting three, except for your pretty face. She only has one." He reaches for his pistol, slowly, and sets it on the table beside his plate, barrel pointed at Billie. "Let's clear up why you're on my ship."

"Because you let us buy passage."

"I just said don't insult me."

Billie shrugs. "It's the truth."

"Last chance."

"Or you shoot me?"

"No. Her." 

He raises the pistol, aims at Esma, and it's a fast motion. She knows it is because it happens between breaths, between heartbeats, and she doesn't have time to react. It's both expected and unexpected. They'd come expecting some treachery from the captain, but...

But this is just unfair! She should be able to move. Instead, she's stuck, and the captain is squeezing the trigger. The shot will kill her. She's powerless to stop it.

Billie is suddenly behind the captain, knife drawn, and then she's stabbing him in the neck, quick and efficient and with surprisingly little blood. His finger spasms, and...

And Avery's shoving her against the wall. The shot echoes and echoes and echoes in Esma's ears, but she's unharmed. She touches her chest just to be sure. No pain. No sticky warmth. Just the frantic beat of her heart.

Avery's saying something. Her lips are moving, anyway, but all Esma can hear is the crack of the shot, and that can't be right, because it was one shot, and it's over.

Avery slaps her. "Keep your head down if you're going to fall apart!"

Esma presses a hand to her cheek. It stings, doesn't it? Yes. It stings. The skin is hot beneath her fingers.

There's movement behind Avery. Billie, fending off some of the crew, but she's losing ground, and they're pushing into the cabin. Esma pushes Avery away and draws her knife. "I'm back together."

"Stay behind us," Avery snaps.

Yes, that's what she should do. There's not enough room to squeeze her way shoulder-to-shoulder with Billie and Avery, and she doesn't have the skill to fight alongside them.

Billie disappears from the doorway. Avery steps up to fill the gap, and the tenor of the shouting outside the door changes from snarling anger to...

To panicked fear. Billie must be out on the deck attacking them from behind. Or maybe it's Rinaldo and Eddols and that pup, Orlov, coming to their aid. Or maybe the crew is turning on each other. Whatever the combination, Avery's gaining ground, her footing sure on the blood-soaked wood.

She's no use to them. Esma tightens her grip on her knife. As soon as Billie and the others take the ship, as soon as they free those children from the hold, she'll force more lessons from Billie. And then Rinaldo, and Avery, and Eddols, and even that young pup. She's done being useless.

_So now you really will be everything, including a hired blade._

Yes. Esma smiles. Or grins. It's wide and wild and makes her cheeks ache. She'll be everything she needs, everything her sisters need, and maybe even everything Billie and Rinaldo need, because why stop with herself and her sisters? She will be everything.


	6. Chapter 6

It's a messy fight. Billie's had her fair share, but most of them are well in the past. Daud trained them to make clean kills. Swift kills. Elegant kills, when the contract called for it. None of that brawling shit like the Dead Eels or those Bottle Street fucks. They're the worst, mainly because Slackjaw's _smart_ , maybe as smart as Daud.

This crew's nothing like Slackjaw's. They're disorganized. While there are a few attempting a coordinated attack, most of the crew fight like they don't have any comrades. It says a lot about how the captain ran things.

By the time Rinaldo, Eddols, and Orlov enter the fray, she and Avery have taken out the captain's inner circle. They'll need to take out more, probably another quarter of the crew, but she and Avery are already well on their way to making a convincing argument for surrender. Rinaldo and the others simply hurry things along.

"Showing off for your lady?" Rinaldo asks, slitting the cook's throat. She'd complain about that, but the fucker had jumped into the fray with a cleaver (and no small amount of skill with it), and even if he hadn't, she wouldn't trust him to cook for them. So no great loss.

"Not as much as you."

"Yeah, well, she likes you more." He blocks a sloppy attack and fires a bolt into the man's eye. "I have to work harder for her affection."

"Wasting bolts isn't impressive."

"I'll remember that when it's time to impress you." He flashes her a wicked grin and then turns to deal with a coordinated attack. Or what passes for a coordinated attack. 

What the crew lacks in teamwork, they make up for in brute strength. Billie turns her attention to a pair of gunmen. They go down fast, but she's disgusted by her sloppy swordsmanship. It's bloodier than it needs to be, but she's got four more crewmen bearing down on her, so she doesn't have the luxury of being elegant.

Good thing _she's_ not trying to impress anyone.

They end up killing a third of the crew and injuring another quarter before they win. When Billie steps up onto a pile of bodies (artfully arranged by Rinaldo; maybe he's switched to trying to impress her) to address the remaining crew, she's not breathing hard at all. That delivers a clearer message than her words: her group cut through all those men without breaking a sweat. Imagine what they could do if they actually exerted themselves.

"We'll dock in Yaro as planned. The only difference," she looks over the assembled crew, her expression as hard and unyielding as Daud's when he addresses lackluster performance, "is that you will not deliver your human cargo."

There's a moment of charged silence. Then someone in the back says, "They're the reason for this run!"

"So you're saying there's no point in docking at Yaro? Consider the question carefully. Once we dock, everyone who wants to can leave. You stay on, and it's under me." She grinds her heel into the eye of the dead man she's standing on. "I am not a kind woman."

"But she's a fair one," Esma says.

Billie manages to keep from startling, but it's a close thing. Esma's directly behind her, and she hadn't heard anyone sneaking up on her. She'll need to resharpen her ears if she wants to keep her new captaincy.

(Daud would traverse behind her and hamstring her on principle. Watching your back's the first thing he drills into new recruits. She's far enough out from those lessons to deserve a blade or bolt in the back.)

She acknowledges Esma with the barest of nods. "Fair enough to offer you a chance to leave."

"We don't unload that cargo, and there's no point in leaving."

A soft murmur of agreement ripples through the crew.

"Then you're mine. Or you point me to a different dock. I've no use for an insubordinate crew and no real desire to kill more of you. We've proven our point, though if you disagree, you're welcome to a second lesson."

She counts off two minutes in her head. Nobody offers an alternate to Yaro. She surveys the remaining crew one last time and then steps down from her perch, wiping her heel on the cleanest patch of shirt she finds. 

"Continue on course." She catches Rinaldo's eye and waits for his answering nod. _Someone_ in the crew can manage the helm. If he can't find the right person, Esma will.

* * *

Avery follows her down to the cargo hold. Billie doesn't bother trying to order her back up on deck. At best, she'd ignore it. At worst, she'd use it as an excuse to fight. There's been enough of that for the night.

The smell hits before Billie registers what she's seeing. It's worse than the slaughterhouses, maybe because the space is smaller, or maybe because she's finally grown a heartstring or two.

The lantern trembles in her hand, sending the beam of blue-white whalelight slicing through the cabin. If Avery asks (but she won't), it's the smell getting to her, not the beginnings of bone-deep anger. They're _kids_. The oldest might be nine. Might. The youngest are fucking toddlers. Only two, Pandyssian-dark twins from the look of it, and Billie can't decide if she's thanking or cursing the Outsider.

(Cursing him. She has to be cursing him.)

The kids closest to the door shrink back. Billie shifts so she's not looming in the doorway. "I'm the new captain."

None of them meet her eyes. Her chest feels tight, like her body can't decide between anger and sorrow, and she understands Esma's outrage now. Fifteen kids crammed into a windowless cabin meant for...well, not meant for anything living.

Billie angles her head towards Avery. "She's Avery. My second mate. She's going to find you proper bunks and get some proper food into you."

"We can't leave," one of the oldest kids says. Could be a boy, could be a girl. Either way, the kid's one of the healthier ones, still has the last few ounces of baby fat and a mass of now-tangled red curls. "They'll do...bad things."

"Not under me."

"We can't leave."

"You can," Avery says. "You will, because I'm not letting you eat where you shit. Come on out. I have enough authority to make some of those bad men scrub the room down while you eat their rations."

That brightens them up. The leader creeps forward, stops, gives Billie a wary glance. "How many of them did you kill?"

"Enough."

"It sounded bad."

"It was for the former captain." Avery's tone is light and airy enough that Billie instinctively prepares to traverse the fuck away. Avery is deadly when she sounds like that. "But not bad enough, _Lurk_."

"You're right. It wasn't."

* * *

The kids take a near-instant shine to Avery and Esma. It takes them longer to warm up to Eddols, but within two days, they're willing to be up on deck as long as one of them is in sight.

None of the kids take a shine to her, though she often catches the youngest two watching her. She recognizes the hollowness in their expressions, and she has to admit she has grown a heartstring or two, because every time she notices them, she wants to go back to where they threw the dead overboard, fish the captain's body out of the water, and somehow find a way to resurrect him in order to kill him again, using all the tricks Daud taught her to make it slow and painful.

Not that he'd be the right target for it. Someone else had broken those kids. She's not sure how she knows that. It's almost like someone (something) is whispering secrets to her, through a dream, maybe, but not one she can remember, except as a feeling.

She hates those kinds of dreams. 

She hates what remains of the former captain's crew. She hates the biting wind, hates the bitter cold, but loves the smell of the sea, the salty tang on her lips, the knowledge she can depend on Esma and Rinaldo, on Eddols and Orlov and even Avery.

Avery catches her watching the kids huddle around Eddols, enthralled by a lesson on how to tie proper knots. "Orlov says he might know a legitimate orphanage that has room to take them in."

"Might?"

Avery shrugs. "Intel's two years old. Things can change. At least he's admitting it."

"How much time does he need to verify?"

"Maybe a week. The orphanage is just outside Yaro."

"You up for going with him?"

"I'm not letting a single one of those kids go anywhere I haven't vetted."

"Good. Because I can't go."

Avery turns and leans back against the railing to survey the crew. "No, not until you get a lot you trust. Or at least a lot you don't distrust." Her gaze settles on Eddols and the kids. "Tell me something, do you trust anyone?"

"I trust you and Orlov to vet the orphanage."

"And Esma to vet everyone else?"

"She's good at reading people."

"Yes."

It's the closest Avery's come to approving of Esma. Billie cuts her a quick glance. "Been testing her eyes?"

"No. The orphanage would be a good test." She sighs. "And I can't believe I'm suggesting it. I can't believe you're keeping her."

"She can move in circles we can't."

"Not many of those circles on the high seas, _Lurk_."

"You don't have Rinaldo's skill for asking questions without actually asking. Come out with it."

"Just wondering what your plans are after we dock. And don't say figuring out what to do with the kids. I know that much. And I know despite what you said, you're not keeping any of the original crew, so you'll be sorting that out."

"You're right. Though now, at least, I know I can rely on you and Orlov to take care of the kids."

"We'll help take care of the crew, too, especially if the sorting out comes at the edge of a blade."

"I'll give them a chance to leave. But it may come to blades."

"Pity for them. And after that?"

"I don't know." She turns away from Eddols and the kids and braces both hands on the railing, leans into the icy wind. It doesn't help her sort out her thoughts. It does, however, make it easier to think. 

They need information. What's happening in Dunwall? Has the plague spread to any of the other islands? Who holds power in Yaro? Who can they go to for forged papers for the ship? What are the current prices for legal and illegal cargo? What are the going rates for the various crew positions?

"You don't know." Avery's tone is flat. "Seriously, Lurk?"

"Seriously. Though I suppose it's more accurate to say we'll need information, so once we sort out the crew and the kids, our next step will be to gather it. Then we can form a plan."

"We."

"I'm operating under the assumption you and the others want to be part of my merry little band since you haven't put a blade in my back yet."

"Can't with Esma Boyle watching it."

Billie smiles. "So you have been testing her eyes."

"No. _I_ have eyes. Good thing you want her around, because the only way she'll leave is if you kill her."

"We're not killing her."

"Yeah, that's obvious. I'd have to go through you and Rinaldo, and I like that squidfucker. I'm even starting to like _her_." Another sigh. "I can't believe I'm saying that."

Billie can't stop her laughter. It feels too good, too honest, and when was the last time she could claim anything remotely honest? "At least you're not saying you're starting to like me."

"I did." Avery pushes away from the railing. "Be a long time before I do again, Lurk, but I don't want to kill you anymore. So. Truce."

"Truce." Avery's already walking away, so Billie can't tell if Avery can hear her. She turns and raises her voice, hopes the wind doesn't shift and blow the words away. "Take Esma with you. You're right. It will be a good test for her eyes."

Avery raises her hand, flashes the order acknowledged hand sign. And then, a moment later, the all clear hand sign. So, the truce cleared enough between them. Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to let this sit for so long! It's not an abandoned fic. I just got sidetracked by a new position at work and a few other projects. Thank you for reading!


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